Chapter 4 - The Mind in the Cellar
At St. Jude’s Psychiatric Facility, the corridors were painted an unoffensive seafoam green, designed to soothe shattered nervous systems. Michael Vance sat in an armchair by a sunlit window, wearing a clean, oversized sweater. He held a glass of water with two trembling hands, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light.
Dr. Aris, the forensic psychologist assigned to the case, stood beside me behind the observation glass.
“Michael is not psychotic,” Dr. Aris explained in hushed tones. “He is severely conditioned. His father subjected him to extreme sensory deprivation, religious terror, and psychological infantilization for over twenty-five years. He has the social maturity of an abused pre-adolescent. Harold convinced him that the outside world was populated by demons who would tear him apart if they saw his mark.”
“Why was he in my house?” I demanded, watching the pale man through the glass.
“Harold gave him keys,” Aris replied grimly. “Harold used Michael like a phantom. When you and Daniel were asleep, Harold would drive Michael to your street. He told Michael that Lily was his ‘sister in the blood’—that she was suffering from the same curse, and that Michael had to watch over her until Harold could prepare the ritual to ‘cleanse’ her. Michael didn't want to hurt her, Mrs. Vance. In his broken mind, he believed Harold was going to cure her so they could both finally walk in the sun.”
I felt a profound, tragic pang in my chest. Michael was not an accomplice; he was Harold’s first and longest-suffering victim.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
Michael stiffened immediately, shrinking back into the cushions, his hands shielding his cheek. “Please don't tell him I talked. Dad said if I talk to the police, the fire will come.”
“Harold is never coming back, Michael,” I said gently, sitting in the chair across from him, keeping my distance.
He blinked through pale eyelashes. “The baby... the little girl. Is she dead?”
“No,” I said firmly. “Lily is safe. She is healthy. Her mark is just a mark. It's just skin, Michael. It doesn't mean anything.”
Tears welled in his sunken eyes, spilling over the white scars across his cheek. “He told me... he told me it was a bullseye. He told me every dart that hit the wood took a sin out of my blood. He said if I took enough hits, Mom would come back.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Where did your mother go, Michael?”
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Michael looked down at his lap, his knuckles whitening. “The well,” he whispered. “Under the old greenhouse. Mom tried to break the board. Dad said she had to sleep in the cold water until she learned respect.”
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